Wilted
by heygodcomplex
Summary: They left him oh-so-alone and then he was just as dead as the sunflowers he loved.


They were all gone. Departed. They had left.

Well, they hadn't exactly left. They still remained in the house, the cold, bleak, empty house—

**(Of course they'd stay in your house, with your idiotic thermostat that won't go above 10 degrees anymore and your drooping, half-dead sunflowers. I mean, it's a paradise, isn't it?)**

but the doors to their rooms were locked. Locked, and barricaded. Nobody locked the doors in _his _house. Nobody did.

They did now, though. He didn't know why; what had _he _done wrong? The punishments were for their own good, and it wasn't like he _wanted_ to hurt them.

**(Or did you? Weren't you a sadistic bastard?)**

They should've known it wasn't his fault. He promised them it would all be better soon; why didn't they understand that? He promised them, didn't he? They should have understood.

But they didn't understand, any of them. He didn't know them anymore.

(**Maybe you never did. Maybe you never did.)**

And the doors simply would not budge.

**(And it's all your fault.)**

He saw them only on rare occasions now. They made sure to avoid him, made it a point not to be in his vicinity. His meals were always there, his house always spotless, his clothes folded and neatly put into place. But he never saw their faces. _Like invisible servants_, he thought bitterly. _Isn't it nice? Invisible, obedient servants._

**(It's not the same, is it? Not the same as when you could see them, speak to them, be with them. Now you've only got your dead flowers for company.)**

He remembered that, once upon a time, his sisters had walked with him to a field. A field filled with sunflowers, a breeze caressing his face as it passed through the plants.

**(Where did **_**those**_** days go? Where did you go?)**

He remembered that, once upon a time, Toris didn't tremble with fear when he spoke to him. Toris used to smile at him, and ask if he wanted to work in the greenhouse.

**(Where **_**did**_** those days go? **_**Where**_** did you go?)**

The doorknob screeches as it turns—he's been meaning to do something about that, get a replacement or oil it or do _something_, but it was locked, inaccessible—but he doesn't realize that someone has finally left their room, as he's trapped in his own thoughts.

**(Look up. Look up!)**

Then he looks up.

It's a familiar face. It's a familiar face, yes. But he can't quite place _who _the face belongs to.

**(Who **_**are **_**you?**

**Who…are you?)**

The person smiles.

**(The smile…it glows. Like a sunflower.)**

It's a sorrowful, melancholy smile, and he notices a tear making its way down the arches of the figure's face, dropping onto the floor with an audible plop.

**(A wilted sunflower.)**

The figure, the familiar figure, who suddenly brings forward an onslaught of memories

strides

past him,

vanishes from sight

as the front door closes

and he's left alone again,

the chill of the outside embracing him with sharp, jagged touches.

And he collapses to the floor, an emotional mishmash of regret and sorrow and pain and anger and love and that one other feeling that he's starting to feel. It's creeped up on him, snuck up and caught him by surprise. It's given him a poisonous kiss, one that'll latch onto his mind and the heart that he can't control no matter how much he separates his emotions from it, and the toxins will seep into his bloodstream until his entire body is filled with it, filled with it, filled with it.

And he won't be able to escape.

**(**_**That**_** feeling.)**

That feeling that he just hates. That he absolutely despises, with every limb and muscle and thought.

**(Like a wilted sunflower…)**

**

* * *

**

A/N: Hi! Well, uh…this is my first fanfic in a long, long time. So I might be a tad rusty. Or just plain bad. Heh. . This isn't too bad from my standards (Your Mileage May Vary), honestly, but as the underlined phrase within the parentheses tells you.

I'm quite proud of that long rambling paragraph near the end, though. I know it's not very…eh (Yes, eh, the magical word that can convey my emotions to you), but I really liked it. Hehe…

Oh, and when he talks about the 10-degree-thermostat, he's talking in Celsius terms. About 50 degrees Fahrenheit, I think. Just, you know, in case you were thinking Fahrenheit and freaking out about how Russia was going to go and freeze his ass off indoors and hey, Ivan, I'll fix your AC and maybe you can, y'know, return _a la_ (yes, I'm using gratuitous French, _le_ gasp!) favor with a kiss! *fangirl swoon* Or something like that.

I always imagine the departing figure to be Ukraine (and sometimes Lithuania) but it can really be anyone close to Russia… even, say, Canada, if you're a shipper of RussNada (as I have fondly dubbed it), and want to believe that Canada lives in Ivan's house or something (le cough, cough, wink wink…).

So thanks for reading, hopefully you review (lest I go out and smack you with my pipe—yes, I RP Ivan! And Iggy…), and yeah. Overly long Author's Note, so I'll just shut up and you can go on your jolly way.

_Inspired by the poem _Teenagers_ by Pat Mora_


End file.
